


Devilish Ways

by Ladybug_21



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Goth Gay Friends, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 17:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19772884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladybug_21/pseuds/Ladybug_21
Summary: Crowley has always been very impressed by the sheer bloody nerve of Miss Anne Lister, beginning with that night she trounced him (and half of the 33rd) in a round of cards at some lodging house in Halifax.





	Devilish Ways

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece of sorts to my previous _Good Omens_ / _Gentleman Jack_ crossover fic, _[Baffling Code](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19724905)_. Many thanks to all of the folks who left such gracious comments there, and especially to those whose comments encouraged me to write the initial scene of this story—namely, [SilverOak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverOak/pseuds/SilverOak), [serenitysolstice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenitysolstice/pseuds/serenitysolstice), [greekdemigod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greekdemigod/pseuds/greekdemigod), [toastweasel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastweasel/pseuds/toastweasel), and [silentfort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentfort/pseuds/silentfort). I promise that Aziraphale and Ann Walker will make actual appearances in later installments, but I did want to go ahead and write a full account of Crowley losing to Anne Lister in cards, per request, to start things off!
> 
> All rights belong to the creators of the shows in question. And, once again, the title comes from the second verse of the O'Hooley & Tidow song that plays over the _Gentleman Jack_ closing credits.

Halifax, 1816

The first time Crowley meets Anne Lister, he loses a considerable amount of money to her.

He’s up in Yorkshire for the week, checking three urgent temptations off of his to-do list—and, at Aziraphale’s request, one miracle. (Crowley tries not to think about the miracle too much, though, because he hates how happy he feels when he remembers how the little crippled boy’s face lit up upon realising that he could walk again. Too many more of these trade-offs, and the demon is afraid he might do something foolish, like try to bargain his way back into Heaven’s good graces.) All of the work has required a lot of frantic tramping about the countryside, getting to all of the necessary locales, which has been stressful enough in itself; and earlier that day, to top it all off, Hastur just bloody well _had_ to ooze out of a rotting cow carcass by the side of the road as Crowley passed, which was disturbing on more levels than Crowley cared to enumerate.

“Crowley,” sneered the Duke of Hell, each motion sending flies buzzing about as avidly as though Hastur were Beelzebub.

“Hastur! What a, erm, pleasant surprise.” Crowley swallowed as subtly as he could to avoid retching at the stench as his supervisor approached. Aziraphale has noted more than once Crowley's remarkable cleanliness for a demon—“especially, my dear fellow, since they do say that cleanliness is next to godliness”—and Crowley, glancing at the slime covering Hastur, remained ever grateful that Downstairs hadn't yet noticed that keeping clean is far from a requisite for a credible earthly disguise.

“Wanted to pass along some congratulations,” Hastur droned. “Head Office is very pleased with the temptation of the magistrate. They’re so impressed with how deftly you handled it that they want you to lay the groundwork for a trickier assignment while you’re in this part of the world.”

“Yeah, all right,” Crowley responded, preening himself a bit. “What’s that, then?”

“There’s a woman here in Yorkshire. Madly in love. With another woman,” Hastur added significantly.

“Well,” Crowley admitted, “I can’t claim credit for that particular fact, and frankly, as far as so-called sins go…”

“We’re not trying to give you any credit for anything, yet,” smirked Hastur. “She’s set to pass through tonight at the lodging house four miles from here. Keep an eye out for her, will you? She doesn’t know that her lover is on the verge of betraying her and marrying an older man, and we have plans for when that happens.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“And that would be…?”

“Yes,” Hastur leered, “our plan is to have this woman seduce her former lover, _after_ she’s married. Adultery at its finest and most scandalous.”

“Riiiiiight,” said Crowley.

“She’s already got quite a _reputation_ , this woman,” Hastur continued, wheezing with infernal glee. “But there’s not much to complain about, is there, until she starts stealing away other people’s wives? Let’s add that extra degree of damage, shall we, Crowley?”

“On it,” Crowley mumbled unenthusiastically, and Hastur, still leering, sank into the ground slowly, leaving behind all of the flies to circle in confusion above the soil.

And so here Crowley is, slowly nursing an ale in the hall of the Halifax lodging house, surrounded by a throng of typically rowdy soldiers, and waiting for this infamous woman to appear.

“Oi, you see who’s just arrived outside?” shouts one of the soldiers finally, and his mates rush to the dingy windows of the lodging house and jeer at what they see.

“Why, if it ain’t the infamous Miss Lister!”

“Gentleman Jack herself!”

“Hey, Smith, five shillings says you can’t lick her in a fair fist fight!”

“Hey yourself, Willoughby, five shillings says _you_ can’t lick her _anywhere_ , ‘cause she’d break your sodding nose first!”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Soldiers are so dreary and predictable, especially when in their cups. It’s enough to make a demon feel well out of a job, seeing how they tempt each other into nonsense.

But the goading dies down almost instantly, the moment the woman in question strides into the hall. A vigorous twenty-five years old, and in the heady flush of infatuation, she cuts a dashing figure indeed in her royal blue frock coat and black riding boots. She clearly is aware of the muttering that follows her, but she seems to pay it little mind as she swaggers up to a table, drops into a chair, pulls off her frock coat, and calls for an ale of her own with a careless gesture of one hand. When she catches Crowley watching her from the corner of the room, she raises her eyebrows at him, and he looks away, suddenly embarrassed. For the next half hour or so, he only sneaks glances out of the corner of his serpentine eyes, trusting that his tinted spectacles will prevent her from noting him as she exchanges a few words with those who approach her at her table, and otherwise scribbles untidily into a diary that she’s brought with her.

Finally, though, the woman looks up and catches Crowley observing her. Far from looking away herself, she invites him over to her table with a jerk of her head.

“Anne Lister, of Shibden Hall,” she says, extending a hand to Crowley without standing up as he approaches. For one insane moment, Crowley wonders if he’s supposed to try to kiss the proffered hand, but the second he takes it in his own, Anne Lister pumps it up and down in a firm, no-nonsense handshake. “If you’re curious, you might as well just ask straight-out, rather than skulk in the corner, spying.”

“Crowley,” the demon introduces himself, “and if you want the honest truth, I’ve been furrowing my brow over whatever you’re writing in your diary.”

“The contents?” Anne asks, amused. “Or the crypthand?”

“The latter,” clarifies Crowley, staring down at the page. “Is that ancient Greek I see? And… great Hades, _algebra?_ ”

“I’ll not give you one hint as to what it all means,” Anne tells him cheekily, “seeing as you might furrow your brow even more over the contents than over their presentation.”

This only makes Crowley that much more desperately curious, but he bites his tongue.

“Where are you from?” Anne asks, taking a healthy gulp of her second pint. “Not Yorkshire, I take it?”

“Here and there,” Crowley demurs, sitting down opposite her. “Residing mostly in London, at present.”

“I see. And what brings you to Halifax, Mr Crowley?”

“Business,” Crowley answers truthfully.

“Hmm.” Anne props her elbows on the table and leans towards Crowley, appraising him for a moment. Then, seemingly satisfied with what she sees, she leans back in her chair. “I’ve a mind to play a hand of cards or two with anyone who’s interested. The 33rd’s never afraid to put their hard-earned wages in the hands of fortune. Care to be dealt in?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” shrugs Crowley, who otherwise will spend the evening doing further spying from the corner and worrying that Hastur is about to materialise out of some other creepy medium.

Anne shouts above the din of the hall for other takers, and when a healthy number of soldiers have settled themselves around the table, Anne rolls up the sleeves of her blue shirt and pulls out a pack of playing cards.

"You there!" Someone shoves Crowley's shoulder, and he turns to glare at the ruddy face of a soldier standing just behind him. The man's breath is made of more liquor than air by this point in the evening, and Crowley wrinkles his nose. "Why the funny spectacles?"

"They're for my vision, incredibly enough," Crowley deadpans.

"Well, I ain't playing cards with a man whose eyes I can't see," the soldier scoffs. "Take 'em off."

"No," replies Crowley coldly.

"You 'eard me," the soldier insists, shoving Crowley again, "take 'em off!"

Crowley is about to go all snake-headed on the soldier, but there's no need, for the next moment, Anne Lister has the man by his collar and is glaring coolly at him, her nose about three inches from his.

"I don't like playing cards with bullies, especially drunk ones," she explains casually as the soldier stares at her, befuddled. "It's my game, and you'll be civil to Mr Crowley here, or I shan't deal you in. You hear me?"

The atmosphere around the lodging house has gone tense, and Crowley can almost see the calculations flipping through the minds of the soldiers assembled: _She's only a woman; but there's no honour in whipping a woman, and the captain'd as like give us the whip ourselves for it; could always let it go and start our own card game; but she's the one with land and money, wouldn't do any good to play without her stakes..._

Fortunately, the drunken soldier blinks at Anne stupidly for a moment or two, then nods and pulls away from her, grumbling, to go take a seat at the table. To Crowley's surprise, Anne claps the demon on the shoulder briefly before returning to her own seat and dealing out.

Crowley never cheats at cards. He could, of course, quite easily; but what would be the fun in _that?_ Over centuries of picking up the latest gambling trends, he's turned it into a bit of a game, learning to best the humans at their own devices. Crowley's gotten extremely good at winning fairly.

Which is why he's shocked that he can't beat Anne Lister.

At first he thinks that _she's_ cheating. She must be; how else can he be losing? But the demon's developed a keen eye for sleight of hand by this point, for more than just the terrible magic tricks of one particularly enthusiastic angel. Unlike, say, a convent of satanic nuns, he knows how to watch the cards as they slide in and out of decks and hands, across tables and under stacks. Anne Lister isn't cheating. She's just uncommonly _good_ at this.

By the time Crowley is ready to call it quits, they've been at it for hours and the evening has long since darkened into night. The air in the lodging house has grown stale with the reek of sweat, and the dim candles are nearly sunk into their own pools of dripping, sooty tallow. Anne, her thick hair plastered to her scalp with sweat, has discarded her cravat and unbuttoned her light blue waistcoat, and most of the few brave soldiers who are still at the table have done the same. Crowley supposes that he would follow suit, if anything ever made him uncomfortably warm.

"I'm out," the demon sighs, tossing his cards onto the table. "What do I owe, Miss Lister?"

"Fifty pounds," says Anne without missing a beat, from around the cigarette that droops from one corner of her mouth.

Crowley already knows this, of course; he's mostly just interested to see if Anne has been keeping track accurately. He pulls out a stack of notes, rises from his chair, and drops the lot in front of Anne. She sets down her own hand, counts the notes, then hands one back to Crowley.

"That's yours."

"You're sure about that?" Crowley says.

Anne smiles, the cigarette's glow highlighting her sharp cheekbones.

"I promise you, Mr Crowley, that I'm perfectly adept with algebra, even in its capacities beyond crypthand."

So the curious Anne Lister also happens to be honest as the day, when it comes to money. Crowley is impressed, in spite of himself. He pockets the extra note with a nod, then retrieves his top hat from where he left it under his seat, before wandering outside.

There's a full moon, and Crowley takes a deep breath of fresh air under its refreshing blue light. He hates to admit it, but he _likes_ Anne Lister. She may have just wounded his pride by trouncing him at cards—and it's really his pride that's hurting more than his pocketbook, which is one of the advantages of being a divine being—but she did it honestly, and with good humour. Crowley recalls the reassuring weight of Anne's hand on his shoulder after she stared down the soldier trying to bully him.

"Aw, _bless_ it," the demon groans after a moment. How can he tempt Anne Lister, after all this? Crowley blames Aziraphale's influence for the fact that he simply can't, in good conscience, try to corrupt someone he respects, demonic nature be damned (as it were).

Crowley is still musing when he sees a carriage pull up to the lodging house, and a servant of some sort leap out and hurry in through the front door. A few minutes later, the servant re-emerges, followed by a clearly irritated Anne Lister, who is pulling her frock coat back on as she strides towards the carriage. By the time both Anne and the servant have disappeared into the carriage, and the team begins to trot back towards Shibden Hall, some heated discussion has clearly begun between Anne and whomever ventured out with the servant to fetch her. The demon can't help but smile at the unconventional woman's spirit, unyielding even at three in the morning.

Crowley returns to London. He tells Aziraphale about the successful miracle and quietly revels in the way that the angel's face glows with delight at Crowley's narrative. But the demon doesn't mention Anne Lister, not just yet. To be completely honest with Aziraphale—and Crowley truly hates being anything other than completely honest with Aziraphale—would require explaining Hastur, and why Crowley was at that lodging house in the first place. And Crowley isn't quite sure yet if he wants to have to explain to Aziraphale the sort of temptation into which he's supposed to lead Anne Lister, the sort of temptation that's only arisen because Anne Lister and the soon-to-be-wed Mariana Belcombe can't simply be lovers out in the open. The demon understands only too well what it means to desire what the rest of the cosmos has categorically labeled as forbidden.

Crowley doesn't tempt Anne Lister. He figures that he can always _say_ that he tried, and that she successfully resisted; such things do happen, of course. But, regardless, rumour reaches him a few years later that the increasingly infamous mistress of Shibden Hall has continued to carry on with Mrs Lawton, in what can only be termed covert notoriety. Ligur corners Crowley in a rubbish-strewn alleyway one evening to pass along Head Office's congratulations for another job well done. And Crowley quietly accepts the praise, with a small smirk of bemusement. After all, what Anne Lister chooses to do of her own accord, all on account of her own bloody nerve, is absolutely none of Crowley's business.


End file.
